American Dreams (12 page)

"It is a pleasure, Miss Hall." He addressed her in English, prompting Eliza to recall that his command of the Cherokee language was reportedly poor. "I am told you play the piano as sweetly as the whippoorwill sings. Perhaps the next time I have the privilege of stopping by Gordon Glen, you would honor me with your music."

"I should be delighted, but... how did you know?" Eliza blurted in confusion.

"A certain young missionary by the name of Nathan Cole remarked on your ability," John Ross replied. "I believe you are acquainted with him."

"I am, yes." She nodded awkwardly.

Eliza was grateful that his attention reverted to her employer. John Ross exchanged a few more words with him, then moved on, wending his way slowly through the respectful throng that had gathered to see him. Everywhere, the Cherokee leader was treated with a deference that bordered on awe.

Eliza watched until he was swallowed by the crowd. She turned to Temple and discovered The Blade had joined them. She felt the stirrings of discomfort and unease that always gripped her whenever the three were together. She worried about Temple and his effect on her, and the heat that flowed between them, transmitted by a mere glance, made Eliza decidedly more uncomfortable.

After a brief exchange of greetings, The Blade asked, "What did you think of our chief, John Ross?"

"I think he is unquestionably a man of the people." Despite her initial reaction, Eliza refused to judge the man on his looks. She knew quite well there was no correlation between a person's appearance and his or her abilities. "It was good to find someone as humble as John Ross holding such a great office."

"Indeed." The Blade nodded his agreement, then asked curiously, "Is this your first visit to New Echota, Miss Hall?"

"It is, yes. To be frank, I had not realized so many people would gather here for the annual meeting of your National Council."

Whole families had spilled from the scarlet and gold foothills, coming from every corner of the Nation to fill the one-hundred acre townsite. Tents surrounded the tidy capital city, springing up like mushrooms after a rain, and the wood smoke of campfires hung in the autumn air.

Despite the many serious issues to be addressed by the convening council, it was still a social time for the Cherokee people, with families reuniting after months, or sometimes years, of separation. It was a festive, pulsing scene that both fascinated and invigorated Eliza.

"Take a good look and remember," The Blade advised her. "This may be the last time the Cherokee will assemble like this in the capital of our nation."

"Don't say that," Temple flared.

Smoothly meeting her angry look, he replied, "I am only saying what others think but are afraid to voice."

"To even think it is an admission of defeat."

"Temple, the State of Georgia has issued a decree that makes it unlawful for us to meet on the soil of Georgia," The Blade reminded her, exhibiting the tolerant patience of an adult with a child.

"This is not Georgia. It is the heart of the Cherokee Nation," she retorted.

"So we say," he murmured dryly. "But how long do you think Georgia will permit us to defy her orders?"

"How can you talk that way?" she demanded impatiently.

"I am only describing the situation as it exists. If the Georgia Guard rode in right now, we would have no choice but to hold our council meeting at another site—one beyond their reach ... to the north in Tennessee, or west in Alabama. You know I speak the truth."

"Perhaps." Temple shrugged with deliberate indifference. "But that will all change. The lawyers that Chief John Ross engaged are already appealing our case to the Supreme Court. When it rules in our favor, the federal government in Washington will have to enforce the terms of our treaty with them and protect us against the Georgians. Father says it is merely a matter of time."

"Time," The Blade repeated wryly. He would never possess such remarkable forbearance over the wrongs being committed against the Cherokees.

Temple touched Eliza's arm, claiming her attention. "Here comes your missionary friend, Mr. Cole."

Turning, Eliza caught sight of a widely smiling Nathan hurrying toward them with long, ungainly strides. "Eliza." He stopped and swept off his hat, holding it in front of him. "It is good to see you again."

"Hello, Nathan."

"I was wondering if you had arrived yet. Were you on your way somewhere?"

"Temple and I were going to the store. I have some shopping to do."

"Reverend Cole can escort you," Temple inserted. "I just spied Jane Rogers in the crowd. I have not seen her since our days at Brainerd."

Before Eliza could protest, Temple hurried off to see her friend. The Blade smiled and inclined his head to Eliza. "I will leave you in Reverend Cole's care."

"You are in luck," Nathan told her. "All four stores in town are open. Usually only one is, but with so many families in town for the annual meeting, it is a busy time."

"It is, indeed," Eliza agreed.

Together they set out from the tent city and headed for town, passing through the residential area marked by a half dozen white frame houses, most of them two-storied with spacious front porches. The town of New Echota itself was neatly laid out in a city form of one-acre lots, with a public common in the center of it. Near the common stood the Cherokee courthouse, where the laws of the Nation were enforced by its judges. Near that was the Cherokee council house, a large, two-story structure with brick chimneys and glass windows. It was here that the two legislative bodies of the Cherokee government—the National Committee and the National Council—held their annual sessions.

 

A few short days after the October session began, a white man came forward and identified himself as John Lowrey, an agent of the United States government assigned by Secretary of War Eaton. He requested permission to speak to the combined houses.

His address to the combined houses proposed that the United States enter into a new treaty with the Cherokees, offering the same old terms: in exchange for Cherokee land in the East, the United States would give them territory west of the Mississippi and pay for their transportation and the building of new homes and schools there.

He said only one thing that the Cherokees had not heard before, and that had an ominous ring.

"At whatever time the State of Georgia chooses to enter the land occupied by the Cherokee people for the purpose of surveying it, the president of the United States will
not
interfere."

A Cherokee delegation was immediately chosen to travel to Washington and protest the continued harassment of the Cherokee people. Will Gordon was one of the delegates selected to announce that the Cherokees would never again cede another foot of land.

 

By the end of November, the trees at Gordon Glen had lost their leaves. They stood stark and bare as the family gathered on the front veranda to see Will Gordon off on his long journey. Eliza hovered in the background, watching as he said good-bye to his children, affectionately embracing each of them in turn, then kissed his wife on the cheek.

Once astride his gray horse, he appeared to remember Eliza for the first time. "Miss Hall, I shall be meeting with Payton Fletcher while I am in Washington. Is there a message you would like him to take to your family?"

Eliza hesitated only a moment. "Ask him to inform my mother that I am well and in good spirits."
 

"I will."

"God's speed to you, Mr. Gordon, and good luck."
 

"We shall need it." With a saluting wave to all of them, he rode off to join the rest of the delegates.

 

 

 

10

 

 

Ignoring Phoebe's admonition to throw on a shawl, Temple opened the heavy baroque door, indifferent to the wall of January air that awaited her. With her father away in Washington, few visitors stopped by Gordon Glen, so the approach of a horse and rider at this hour of the evening heralded only one possibility—The Blade.

When the rider halted within the pool of light that spilled from the great hall, Temple was not disappointed. "What are you doing out in this cold?" she asked with a welcoming smile.

Puffs of steamy breath billowed from the nostrils of his horse, dissipating like thin smoke into the night. The Blade didn't immediately reply. He merely sat on his lathered horse and stared at the woman with moon-pale skin and night-black hair. "I saw your lights and hoped you might offer to share the warmth of your fire."

Shadrach ran out of the shadows to take the horse's reins. The Blade dismounted, passing the reins over.

Temple stepped back inside the house and swung the door open wider to admit him. The Blade followed her into the large entry hall and removed his coat, handing it to the waiting servant girl while Temple closed the door. When she turned to him, The Blade noticed the silence in the house.

"Where is your mother?" He glanced in the direction of the family parlor.

"Upstairs with little Johnny. He has been ill with the croup the last two days." Temple stepped away from the door. "We have a fire burning in the parlor." Leading the way, she entered the room and crossed directly to the fireplace, taking up the poker to stoke the smoldering logs into flame.

"It is quiet." The Blade walked over to stand beside her, holding out his hands to the fire's rising heat.

"Miss Hall has already retired for the night." Temple smiled absently. "We heard from my father today. Things seem to be going well. He was most encouraging in his letter."

"He was?" The Blade said, almost harshly.

"Yes." Her smile widened. "The Supreme Court has ordered the State of Georgia to appear before it and show cause why a writ of error shouldn't be issued against them in the case of George Corn Tassel. According to Father, that means the Supreme Court believes Georgia exceeded its jurisdiction when it convicted a Cherokee on land owned and governed by us." She beamed with triumph.

"You haven't heard, have you?" The tightness returned—the anger.

"Heard what?" She tipped her head to one side, still smiling at him.

"He is dead. They hanged George Corn Tassel."

"What?" Her dark eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed in confusion. "I don't understand. Didn't they receive the order from the Supreme Court in time?"

"They received it—and ignored it. No, they did more than that." The Blade clenched his teeth in an attempt to control the rage that threatened to boil up inside him again. "When they received the citation from the Supreme Court, they advanced the date of his execution and promptly hanged him to show their contempt. Georgia claims that it is 'not accountable to the Supreme Court or any other tribunal,' and the interference by the Chief Justice was a violation of Georgia's rights."

"But what of the rights of the Cherokees?" Temple demanded.

"When have the Americans ever been concerned with our rights," he retorted cynically and turned away from the crackling fire. Pushed by bitter anger, The Blade crossed to the drink cart and picked up a crystal decanter of whiskey.

"There are many who care," Temple insisted. "Father wrote in his letter that David Crockett from Tennessee has allied himself with our cause. Crockett introduced the delegation to others who have also pledged their support in Congress. Henry Clay has shown himself to be a friend of the Cherokees. There is talk that he will defeat Jackson in the coming election and become the next president. He would enforce the existing treaties that Jackson turns his back on."

Flames leapt high behind her. The glass of whiskey sat untouched on the tray as The Blade studied the determination in her proud stance. By all that was sacred, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Abruptly, The Blade picked up the glass and stared at its contents, but whiskey wasn't nearly as intoxicating to him as she was.

"I do not find it so easy to place my life in someone else's hands." He wasn't thinking of Clay or Crockett when he spoke.

"But that is not what we are doing." Temple walked toward him, the woolen material of her long skirt and the layers of petticoats beneath it swishing softly with each stride. "We are reaching out to join hands with others so we can be stronger. We are seeking out more voices so that our cry for justice will be heard."

"You sound like your father." He eyed her briefly, then tossed down some of the whiskey, welcoming the burn in his throat.

"Is that wrong?" she challenged, drawing herself up to her full height.

"No."

Temple held his gaze for a long second, then partly turned, angling her body away from him, the bodice of her dress lifting and falling with quick yet deep breaths. "My father is strong and loyal.. .unselfish in his commitment to the cause of justice for our people. A more generous man you could not find if you traveled throughout the whole of the Nation. That summer when there was no rain and so many of the Cherokees in the mountains lost their crops, he opened our larder to them, gave them corn from our cribs for their livestock, and the homespun from our looms. We had barely enough supplies left to last us through winter."

"I admire him too, Temple," he declared roughly. "My strength, my loyalty, my commitment run every bit as deep as his, but I am not like him. I never will be. If that is what you seek in a man—"

She turned on him. "Did I say it was?"

"No." The answer exploded from him, and The Blade sighed heavily, trying to expel the anger and tension that gripped him. He shoved the half-empty whiskey glass onto the tray and squared around to face her. "Temple, I don't want to argue with you ... not tonight." Reaching out, he hooked her waist with his hand and pulled her to him. "I didn't come here for that."

At first Temple resisted, turning her head to elude his kiss and pushing against the muscled arms that bound her. She couldn't forget so quickly his callous and cynical remarks or the skepticism they contained, as if he considered the fight for their rights hopeless. Her father would cut out his own tongue rather than speak such treasonous words.